Mother Loves You
by pandorad24
Summary: When Spot's past chatches up with him, Racetrack realizes just how far he's come. Twoshot, Spot/Race friendship, features themes of abuse and alcoholism; based on the little piece in "Carrying the Banner" sung by Patrick's mom.
1. Chapter 1

**Before you read this, you should know that I hate alcohol and nicotine with a passion, but they somehow both ended up here. Kids those days...**

* * *

**Spot**

* * *

It was one of those rare occasions when Spot decided he could use a break from managing a borough of newsies for one day, exhausted by the daily pressure of making sure all his boys were in line and taken care of. That morning, he passed his right-hand man the reins and prepared to make the trip to Manhattan, relieved to spend an afternoon with his friends across the river, free of responsibility. To the king of Brooklyn, nothing sounded better than just a simple game of poker to help him unwind.

"You swear ya ain't cheatin', Race?" Mush groaned, setting his cards down in defeat. "I fold."

There was a collective grumble around the circle as several others followed suit, and after a moment's debate, Spot reluctantly folded as well. He was good at poker, but even he had nothing on Racetrack. The Italian boy grinned as he added his winnings to the already impressive pile beside him - an assorted collection of smokes and pennies. "Thanks again, boys," he said smugly around the thick cigar hanging from his lips. "If it makes ya feel better, Mush, I might even let ya win the next hand."

"He couldn't win a round of poker if we handed him a Royal Flush," Kid Blink taunted, laughing as Mush took a jab at his arm.

Spot and the Manhattan boys sat together in the square outside the news distribution center, lounging against the large statue or sprawled out over the cobblestones, enjoying the fall breeze. From across the circle, Spot noticed that the crippled kid, Crutchy, was staring at something behind him, a grimace crossing over his face. "It's that poor lady again," he muttered sadly. "She's been hangin' around here a lot lately."

Several boys looked up from their cards as well, and Jack shook his head. "She oughtta just give up. Her kid's obviously not in Manhattan."

"What're you boneheads yappin' about?" Spot asked, lazily sorting through his hand.

"This lady's been goin' around lookin' for her son," Boots explained. "She keeps askin' us about him, but we told her we don't know nobody called Patrick."

Spot's head snapped up from his cards, and he could practically feel the color drain from his face as the panic set in, twisting his stomach into knots. "What did you say?"

And then, from across the square behind him, he heard a quiet but distinct gasp, followed by a tentative, painfully familiar voice. Her voice.

"Patrick?"

* * *

**Racetrack**

* * *

We all stared in shock as the woman came closer, clutching her chest and gazing at Spot with an incomprehensible expression. The Brooklyn leader stood up, looking as though he wanted nothing more than to run, but he was frozen in place. "Patrick," the woman repeated, tears in her eyes, and she rushed forward to envelop Spot in a hug, holding him as if she would never let go.

Spot did not return the gesture, merely standing there and staring blankly ahead, letting the woman sob on his shoulder. She pulled away to take his face in her hands, gently rubbing away a smudge of dirt on his cheek and smiling through her tears. "After all this time..."

"You're sober," he observed flatly. "You've never been sober."

"I gave up drinking a few years ago," she said, her smile faltering. "I got a job as a seamstress. Sweetheart, things are going to be so much better now. We can finally be a family again."

"We never was a family," Spot said coldly, pulling away from her embrace. "If ya think I'm goin' back there..."

"Darling, your father and I miss you," she said heartbrokenly.

"You was too drunk to miss me," he hissed. "And I'm sure Dad didn't think twice about it neither."

"Your father loves you-"

"You saw what he did to me!" Spot yelled, his infamous temper flaring. "You was there half the time, but you was either too busy drowning yourself in alcohol to notice, or ya just didn't care."

She paused for a moment, as if searching for the right words to say. "Your father was in a bad place, sweetheart. If you just give him another chance-"

"I was in a bad place, too," Spot interjected, "and I ain't goin' back."

"Son, please, we love you-"

"Liar!" He shouted, his voice breaking in pitch. "Nothin' ever mattered to you 'cept whiskey and sex! Meanwhile, I was hidin' in the cupboard every time Dad got in one of his rages 'cause I knew he'd come and take it out on me, not you! I hate that apartment, I hate my father, and I hate you!"

The slap came without warning, ringing across the square. As soon as she'd done it, the woman brought a hand to her mouth in horror, tears springing to her eyes. "Patrick, I..."

Spot just stared in disbelief, touching the angry red mark on his cheek as if still trying process the fact that his mother had hit him. He stumbled backward, and then just took off at a run, quickly turning the corner out of sight.

After everything they'd heard, the boys didn't look too sure of wether to comfort the crying woman or not, so they just sat around in awkward silence as they watched her slowly walk away, sobbing into her hands. Skittery was the first one to speak up, rubbing the back of his neck in discomfort. "I guess even the great Spot Conlon had a rough start, huh?"

"Ya think someone oughtta go after him?" Mush said, his eyes wide with concern. "He kinda looked like he coulda used a hug."

Blink just scoffed and gave Mush a shove. "Ya don't just _hug_ Spot Conlon, idiot. 'Sides, we should probably let the guy cool down 'fore we try and have a nice conversation with him."

Racetrack stood up, dusting off the back of his trousers with a sigh. "Guard my pile, yeah? I's had better go find him."

"Ya sure that's a good idea, Race?" Crutchy asked warily. "Ya know how he gets..."

"I knows him better than any of ya," Racetrack replied. "Don't worry, I'll be careful."

He could guess where Spot had gone - it was just a matter of finding which bar. He'd checked nearly every joint he knew until he finally found the Brooklyn boy in some obscure tavern near the harbor, sitting in a shadowy corner booth and staring down at his drink as if he wanted to drown himself in it. He didn't seem to notice Racetrack until he was standing right next to him. Without bothering to look up, he asked, "Whadda ya want, Race? Can't ya see I'm busy?"

"If ya mean busy lookin' like a pathetic loser, then yeah, I got the picture." Racetrack sighed, grasping Spot's arm and pulling him off the bench, ignoring the other boy's protests. "That's it, atta boy. C'mon, let's go for a walk."

They ended up ambling around the docks in a more secluded area of the harbor, watching the boats roll peacefully on the water. Thankfully Spot wasn't completely sloshed, though Racetrack noticed he was just a little wobbly on his feet. Race was almost glad Spot had some alcohol in him before he tried to talk - it would help to loosen his lips a bit, and Race might get some more insight on his friend's history, which he'd never liked to talk about before. He had to admit that the incident that afternoon had piqued his interest.

"Talk to me, Spot," he said, staring out over the water at the Statue of Liberty, which was just beginning to show a strange green tint. "You gonna be alright?"

"I'm fine," Spot grumbled. "I just kinda hoped I'd left her behind for good once I skipped out on my old apartment."

"Why'd she call ya Patrick?" He asked. Spot shrugged.

"It's my name," he replied simply. "Patrick Spot Conlon. After I ran, I didn't want nobody callin' me by my first name no more."

"So, did ya really never see her sober 'fore today? You're mom, I mean."

"Not once. Considerin' how much she actually drank everyday, I'm surprised she didn't put herself in a coma."

"What about your dad?"

A shadow passed over Spot's expression, his blue eyes narrowing with anger. "I could never figure him out. One minute he was playin' with me, then he would just start yellin'. He yelled most of the time."

"Did he hit ya?" Race was almost scared to ask.

"Among other things," Spot replied darkly.

It probably would've been wise to just leave it at that, but Race couldn't be satisfied with such a cryptic answer. "Like what, Spot?"

The Brooklyn leader just snapped. "What do ya want from he, Racetrack? You want me to tell ya how my father touched me when he got mad? How he told me I deserved it 'cause I was too ugly and worthless and stupid to be anythin' but a dirty little whore? Are ya happy now?"

And, to Racetrack's absolute horror, he saw a tear slide down Spot's face, followed by another, and another, until he was sitting on the dock, sobbing into his knees. Spot Conlon, king of Brooklyn, did not cry. And yet, there he was, bawling like a baby while Racetrack watched in stunned disbelief. Granted, he was a little drunk, but Race never would have expected tears from the self-proclaimed toughest newsie in New York City.

A voice in the back of his mind told him to do something, but he honestly didn't have a clue about how to handle a situation like this. Should he say anything? "Um... Hey, Spot... Uh, it's okay, buddy... Don't cry..."

No response. Cautiously, Race crouched down beside his friend and laid a tentative hand on Spot's trembling shoulder, half expecting the action to earn him a good punch in the face, but Spot showed no sign of moving. Awkwardly clearing his throat, he tried again. "Hey, uh, I'm sorry about your dad... doin' those things to ya. I was just an orphan meself, I never really met my parents; but maybe that was better than what you got. Sorry I asked."

After a few minutes, Spot gave a little sniffle and raised his head, drying his eyes furiously. "Sorry," he said gruffly, refusing to look at Race in embarrassment. "I knew that drink was a bad idea."

"No kiddin'." Race stood and offered Spot a hand, pulling the other boy to his feet. He swayed slightly, then shot Racetrack a sharp look with bloodshot eyes.

"Ya tell anyone 'bout this, and I'll soak ya for all it's worth."

Race raised his hands defensively. "Wouldn't dream of it. Alright? You'll always be king of Brooklyn."

Spot stared at him calculatingly, flickering his eyes across his face as if searching for any sign of insincerity. He finally nodded, satisfied, and then dragged a hand under his nose with a final sniffle, proceeding to rub it off on Racetrack's sleeve without a second thought. The Italian made a disgruntled noise in the back of his throat, giving Spot a look of disgust. "You did not just wipe your snot on my shirt."

Spot smirked, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Whadda ya say you get me back when ya beat me at another round of poker tonight, huh?"

Race grinned, clapping a hand on Spot's shoulder. "Count on it, Brooklyn."

As they walked back to the Manhattan boarding house together, Racetrack's thoughts wandered back to what Spot had said about his father. To come from such a traumatic childhood, and then managing to come out on top the way he did... Spot Conlon truly was the toughest newsie in New York City.


	2. Chapter 2

**Well, Clair Lawson, since you asked so nicely...**

**To tell you the truth, I took the longest time trying to think of a way to continue this, and eventually just decided to give up. But then the plot bunnies came and attacked me in the middle of the night, and I just ran with it. You're welcome! :)**

* * *

On what was arguably the hottest day of the year, Racetrack uncovered another piece of Spot's carefully hidden past.

It was an accident, really - just the product of a passing glance that would forever be engrained in his mind. That afternoon, following a grueling day of shouting embellished headlines as he blistered in the sun, he planned to make the trip down to Sheepshead, hoping to compensate for missed profit at the races. He had barely stepped foot in Brooklyn, however, when a familiar voice greeted him.

"Racetrack," Spot called, hopping down from his perch on a shipyard barrel and sauntering over to his friend. "Headin' down to watch the ponies?"

"Well, I didn't come just to see your pretty face," Race replied sarcastically, dragging a sleeve across his forehead to catch the stinging beads of sweat.

"Too bad," Spot said with a smirk, throwing an arm around Race's shoulders. "You're comin' with me today."

When the king of Brooklyn spoke, there wasn't much room to argue - Racetrack had no choice but to follow him to the docks, just a short distance away from the Brooklyn boarding house. He had often seen guys swimming around there, but that day it was strangely empty. "They all wanted to go to see Medda," Spot explained, "so I get to stay and hold down the fort. It's lucky ya stopped by, I could use some company. Ya know how to swim, don't cha?"

Racetrack nodded. "Good," Spot said, as he began pulling off his shoes. "It's too dang hot to do anythin' else."

Without a hint of embarrassment, Spot quickly stripped naked and dived into the water, leaving the other boy to fumble with his buttons self-consciously. Spurting water as he surfaced, Spot said with a smirk, "C'mon, Racey, don't tell me you're shy."

"Am not!" He retorted indignantly, feeling a blush crawl up his cheeks. He kicked out of his underclothes and jumped in after Spot, his overheated body feeling instant relief as he splashed into the frigid river. The relief quickly turned to impending hypothermia, and he scrambled back onto the dock, covering himself with his discarded pile of clothes and attempting to calm the staccato chattering of his teeth.

"Ya big wuss," Spot accused, laughing.

"C-Call me whatever ya want, b-but when you're done f-freezin' your skinny white rear off in there, f-feel free to join me."

"All ya 'Hattan boys are soft," Spot claimed with a smirk. "I grew up swimmin' here."

"Y-Yeah, and look how y-you turned out."

The Brooklyn boy splashed a shower of water onto the dock, causing Racetrack to let out a rather masculine squeal as he leapt away from it, which only encouraged more laughter from the peanut gallery below. Spot must have been a bit colder than he let on, however, because he got out soon after, stretching out on the dock with his hands behind his head, sun-drying in the August heat.

"If I was as scrawny as you, I wouldn't be flauntin' my skin around so much," Race commented wryly as he stepped into his slacks.

"Aw, don't be like that, Racey," Spot replied with a ridiculous wink. "I know you're enjoying the view." The Italian snorted.

Actually, the view was a little concerning. Race didn't want to stare at the other boy, but he couldn't help but notice that he could easily count every rib in his narrow chest, his stomach so flat it was almost sunken in, and the unnatural way his hip bones jutted out...

In the glance he took at Spot's angular hips, a strange collection of scars caught his eye. On closer inspection, he recognized that the spindly pale lines formed individual letters, stretched with age. Horrified, he read two faint words etched into the skin:

_GOOD BOY_

Feeling sick to his stomach, he quickly turned away, looking out at the Manhattan skyline ahead as he tried to erase the image from his mind. He could guess who had done such an appalling thing to his friend, but the question was, _why?_

* * *

Later that evening, he sat beside Spot on his throne of crates, watching his newsies mill around the docks. The two of them had ordered cheap dinners from a local restaurant, and Spot was currently giving half of his meal away to a small boy who looked as though he hadn't eaten in weeks. He didn't say anything of it, but Racetrack could tell that this was a regular occurrence; it would certainly explain how malnourished the guy was. Though Spot hardly let it show through his tough mask, Race knew he had a soft spot for his boys.

Spot watched the other newsies intently, tapping out a rhythmless beat with his cane as he swept a blue-eyed gaze over the shipyard. It was his kingdom to defend, filled with loyal subjects that depended on him, trusted him. The twist was that he was just as young and poor and hungry and vulnerable as all the rest of them, and it was his job to put all that aside and take responsibility for the lives of his friends, his brothers. There was so much more to the king of Brooklyn than people realized, so much that Racetrack himself didn't know. And, at that moment, he wanted desperately to unravel every little secret his friend had.

The image of the scars was still fresh in his mind, burned into his memory. He hadn't mentioned it, didn't dare acknowledge he had seen anything, but the question had been resting on his tongue since, impatiently waiting for the opportunity to spill out. Steeling himself, he cleared his throat and muttered to his companion, "Can we go somewhere private? I's gotta ask ya somethin'."

Spot gave him a questioning look, but nodded. "Sure. My room's in the attic, no one 'll disturb us."

Racetrack followed the other boy into the nearby boarding house, climbing a rickety staircase to his bedroom. When Spot creaked the door open, Race was startled by the room beyond. It was just as spacious as the floor below, but almost completely empty, save for a sheet that hung between two support posts to serve as a makeshift hammock, and a small dresser pushed against the wall. The ceilings were high, with shadows and cobwebs creeping between the dusty beams. The most remarkable feature, however, was the enormous hole that gaped on the side, leaving jagged, splintered edges in the wall and ceiling, opening up to an incredible view of the riverside.

"Ya can see why nobody wanted to sleep here," Spot remarked. "But I like it. I's never been too fond of enclosed spaces. And I get some birdie friends that fly through from time to time."

They sat down by the edge, staring out over the skyline as the sun sunk below the horizon, turning the clouds to cotton candy and setting the river ablaze with shimmering flames of orange and gold. Race fiddled with his hands, thinking of the best way to bring up what he had seen. "So, eh... Today, after we went swimmin', I couldn't help but notice... Well, you's got these scars..."

Spot turned his gaze to meet Race's, blue eyes boring into him sharply. "You saw that?"

"Well, I mean..." He let out a sigh, running a hand through his slick dark hair. "Yeah, I saw. I was hopin' ya could tell me how ya got 'em."

Spot narrowed his eyes. "Ya think just 'cause I was drunk that one time, I'm just gonna go ahead and give ya my life story?"

Race chose his words carefully. "I knows ya don't like to talk about it, and I don't want to get all sentimental on ya, but... Spot, I'm your friend, and if ya don't tell nobody, you're just gonna explode again like ya did when your mother found ya. You's got enough on your shoulders as it is, I just wanna help."

Spot didn't respond, pursing his lips as he turned back to the river. Racetrack sighed. "Look, how 'bout this - I tell ya my story, and then you tell me how ya got those scars. Deal?" After a few moments, Spot nodded.

And so Race told him. He went into the earliest days he could remember, of the Catholic orphanage run by charitable nuns, that some of the other kids teased him about his height, how they laughed and pushed him around and called him names when Sister Lydia had her back turned. How he left to look for his parents, only to discover that his mother had gone insane after his birth and murdered his father and his grandparents in cold blood - she committed suicide immediately afterward, leaving him an orphan in his crib. With nowhere else to go, he joined the ranks of the Manhattan newsies, and during a late-night game of poker he discovered his talent for gambling. He started going down to Sheepshead every week to bet on the horses, and more often than not, he made a pretty decent profit. Still, he went to church every Sunday, out of gratitude for the nuns who raised him.

Once he was finished, he breathed out a sigh and said, "Ya know, I think you's the first person I ever told all that to." He turned to Spot expectantly. "Your turn, Conlon."

Spot sat there, chewing on his lip as he stared out at the darkening sky. "My father gave them to me," he began softly, a far-away look in his eyes. "He didn't drink very often, but when he did... He always hurt me, every time. That night, I thought it would be different, 'cause he brought a friend home with him from the bar. I'd never met him before, but Dad said he was gonna help us play a little game. They said, if I was a good boy while we played the game, I would get a surprise." He took a steadying breath, wrapping his arms around his knees. "I wanted to be good, 'cause the last time I got a surprise from my Dad, it was a cake on my birthday. And 'cause I was scared of what they would do to me if I didn't do what they wanted.

"They told me to take all my clothes off. They... did things to me. Touched me. They showed me how to touch them, and I did. When it was over, they told me I'd been a good boy, and I asked what the surprise was." By this time, Race's stomach was churning, and he had to swallow down the bile that was threatening to rise in his throat. He could see where this was going, but he didn't dare interrupt.

"My father got out a safety pin, and he stuck the point into the fire. I wondered what he was doin', but he told me to just lay down and shut up. The pin was white hot - it must have been burnin' his fingers, but he just had this crazy look in his eye like he didn't even notice. I tried to get away, and his friend had to hold me down. 'Here's your surprise,' Dad said.

"It hurt worse than anythin' I ever felt, and I was screamin' so loud for Mom to save me, but she was just sittin' there on the couch, polishin' off another bottle of whiskey. Like she didn't even hear me." Finally, he tore his eyes away from the sky and looked at Racetrack, his eyes swimming with an unfathomable expression. "I ran away the next morning."

Racetrack's mouth was dry, and he couldn't think of a single word to say. "I... I'm sorry, Spot."

His friend shrugged. "It was a long time ago. I still have nightmares about it, sometimes. But it doesn't matter much anymore." He cracked a sardonic smile. "Ya know, I sold a pape' to my dad's friend last month. He didn't even recognize me. I ran off with his change."

Spot stood up, dusting off the back of his trousers. "It's gettin' late. Ya should probably be headin' back to Manhattan, Jacky-boy 'll have himself a fit if ya ain't back by curfew."

"Yeah," Racetrack replied dryly, and he followed his friend to the door. "Um... Thanks for talkin' to me."

Spot gave him the ghost of a smile, his blue eyes glinting dully in the low light. "Thanks for listening."

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**If you liked it, please review!**


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